


Coda

by cycnus39



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Sherlock and coded messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

“Boring...boring...boring...boooooooring. Who writes this drivel?”

“No one,” I murmur from behind my laptop. “It’s the news.”

“Oh don’t be so naïve, John. Of course someone writes it. How else do you explain the coded messages?”

“Coded messages?” I blurt out, looking over to see him roll his eyes at me.

“Obviously.”

“Saying what?”

“Whatever they want,” he throws over his shoulder while stalking off into the kitchen. “Last one was a coup in South America.”

“A coup? You mean the Rojas Coup?” I turn to watch him rake through the cupboards. “Really?”

“Don’t you notice anything?” he snaps back, finishing his search of the cupboards and turning to the fridge. “They’re only more obvious in that thing with the performing seals.”

It’s hard to think with a parboiled human head peering out the fridge over Sherlock’s shoulder, but I manage to reply, “You mean ‘Britain’s Got Talent’?”

“I sincerely think not,” Sherlock grunts, then slams the fridge door shut and demands, “Why is there no mustard?”

“I’m sorry, no one informed me you wanted mustard with your parboiled head.”

“It’s steamed and I always have mustard with my cheddar. Mrs Hudson!”

“She’s gone to the bingo.”

“Bingo?”

“It’s a game.”

“I know what bingo is,” he growls then heads off down the stairs.

“She only has coarse grain!” I call after him. “You don’t like coarse grain.”

He doesn’t reply and I listen to him search Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.

Thirty seconds later, he comes up the stairs with a triumphant jar of English muttering, “Why macaroni cheese? I hate macaroni cheese.”

“You found it then,” I say.

He ignores me, just walks into the kitchen to cut his cheddar then spread the mustard thinly on the slices. I don’t say anything else until he’s standing over me with the plate eating.

“You found it then,” I repeat.

He doesn’t respond, just squints disapprovingly at my laptop screen until I close it.

“Ever thought of throwing caution to the wind and making a sandwich of it?” I ask just so he’ll scowl, stalk off and collapse into his chair.

“So,” I say when his gaze settles on me.

“So?” he returns with a raised eyebrow.

“Is it too much to hope that you were joking about the coded messages?”

“When do I ever joke?” he sighs, tossing the empty plate onto the nearest pile of papers and letting his head drop onto the back of the chair as he closes his eyes.

Even while trying to figure out how secret messages could be encoded into reality television, I can’t help but notice how the pale streak of sunlight coming in through the window makes him look like some sort of toppled, alabaster saint.

“Why are you grinning?” toppled Saint Sherlock murmurs without opening his eyes.

“What makes you think I’m grinning?”

“I can hear you. Stop it.”

“I’m not allowed to grin in my own living room?”

“No.”

“I don’t remember reading a ‘no grinning’ clause in the rent agreement.”

“Then clearly you didn’t read the small print.”

“There was no small print.”

“Subtext then.”

“Coded message?”

“Shut up.”

Still grinning, I turn back to my laptop. However, as soon as I flip up the screen to return to my writing, something whirrs past my left ear and I duck just as the plate smashes on the wall behind me.

“THAT ALMOST TOOK MY EAR OFF!” I bellow at him, but he doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Nonsense. It was at least an inch away and I would have had to have thrown it at--”

“Get up,” I growl, pushing up off my own chair and stepping into the middle of the carpet.

He opens his eyes and blinks at me.

“I said get up!”

“I wasn’t trying to hit you, John. That’s why I--”

“I don’t care! You--” I stop talking as a horrible realisation dawns. “You didn’t even look before you threw it, did you?”

He doesn’t respond but I can tell by his face he didn’t.

“You almost sent me to A&E!”

“I deliberately missed.”

“You deliberately didn’t look!”

“Well you wouldn’t stop grinning. I can’t think when you’re grinning.”

“Stitches, Sherlock! I could have ended up with stitches and a concussion!”

“Nothing you haven’t had before.”

“Not for grinning in my own living room!”

“Fine.” He folds his arms over his chest sulkily. “I’m sorry I threw a plate and deliberately missed you.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You know what.”

“No I don’t.”

“If you don’t, the head goes in the incinerator.”

He moves so fast I almost step back, but then he’s standing just inches away and I’m holding my ground.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growls so soft and low it’s almost a whisper.

“Try me.”

Seconds stagger past before he rolls his eyes then leans in close, kisses the air an inch from my left ear even as I jerk away and step back.

“What the Hell was that?”

“I was kissing it better,” he returns with a sniff. “Obviously.”

“Kissing it-- I wanted you to tell me you wouldn’t do it again.”

“Oh. Well why didn’t you say that?”

“I...I’m making tea.” I turn and walk away into the kitchen. “And, no, you’re not getting any.”

The kettle is almost boiling when Sherlock slopes into the kitchen behind me.

“The messages are coded into the arrangement of the performances, not the performances themselves,” he tells me softly. “Honestly, John, did you actually think these ridiculous acts of supreme idiocy were aired just to make the population even more stupid?”

 

 

End


End file.
